


(no matter how they) toss the dice

by foxgloved



Category: Shadowhunters (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Imagine Me & You Fusion, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Bang Challenge, F/F, POV Alternating, minor alec/magnus, minor clary/jace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 11:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7359703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxgloved/pseuds/foxgloved
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Usually the women who look at Isabelle like that are not walking down the aisle.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or — the clizzy <i>imagine me & you</i> au, where isabelle and clary meet at clary's wedding to isabelle's brother. written for the shadowhunters big bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(no matter how they) toss the dice

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!! here it is finally!!!!!! i gotta say it's been amazing working on this, though it seems like it's been a long time since i actually finished the first draft. anyways--i hope you all enjoy, with how much i've been posting about it on tumblr!!
> 
> i was partnered with [erikira](http://erikira.tumblr.com/), who made an [awesome picspam](http://erikira.tumblr.com/post/146762007928/my-art-piece-for-the-shadowhunters-big-bang-for)!!!!
> 
> the title is, ofc, from 'happy together' by the turtles, which was in im&y. (which you should watch right now immediately its so nice and happy!!)
> 
> **tw:** brief alcohol use, homophobia (the lightwood parents :I), really brief use of a slur in a flashback. emotional infidelity for the most part, there's a scene you'd recognize from the movie where it quickly crosses over to... not so emotional. several characters implied to deal w/ mental illness. a character deals with compulsory heterosexuality/internalized lesbophobia (it's never stated outright but i think u can tell?). there is some Angsting, again as with the movie.
> 
> anyways some notes:  
> \- i have no idea how the east coast and especially new york/manhattan works. any addresses stated are borrowed from google maps, though i dont know if theyre accurate or not. since i live in oregon and have never been out of the west coast, unless you count a trip to hawaii.  
> \- some of the scenes might be a little clunky/weird!! or end weirdly bc i don't know how to end exposition. lmao.  
> \- i also have no idea how college or science work--i'm not in college nor do i plan going. because of this and my inexperience with manhattan (as well as colleges there??), isabelle's college is unspecified and her classes are wonky. i barely finished high school science, so her chem stuff is unclear as well. sorry about that!!!
> 
> anyways, enough of my talking!! hope u enjoy!!!

It’s a sunny mid-March morning, the birds are chirping, and the world is at peace except for Maureen Brown’s tiny Manhattan one-bedroom apartment, where Clary Fray’s mother is trying to kill her. (Not intentionally, of course—but there are only so many pins this close to Clary’s scalp that she can take.)

“Mom,” Clary almost shouts, watching her cheeks go a deeper pink in the mirror.

Everything about weddings is so glamorous on TV—the ceremony, the reception, and most of all the preparation. What’s not romantic about your closest friends and mother puffing you up in a too-small bathroom? (Though Maureen had given up and is now cowering near the door, checking in at ten-minute intervals.) Clary will admit she looks good, and why shouldn’t she, doesn’t she deserve to on the day she’s marrying the love of her life?

But, well—“Could you maybe ease up on the pins?” Clary cringes. She’d protested earlier that her hair would look fine in a braid, maybe one of those fancy ones off Pinterest, no pins required. Jocelyn, for what a great mother she was, didn’t listen to Clary sometimes.

Jocelyn’s hands, another couple pins clutched in her pale-knuckled hands, drop to Clary’s shoulders. She’s in a simple but elegant violet dress, knee-length, and her hair’s tucked into a neat bun, spared from the fancy shit. “Sorry,” Jocelyn says, her head looming over Clary’s in the mirror. She flashes Clary a smile. “I just—it’s your big day. I want you to look nice, and I know you want to look nice, so...” She pulls out a couple of pins, letting Clary’s hair fall so it burns around her ears. “Bear with me?”

“Shouldn’t we be going soon?” Clary drums her nails along her thigh, careful not to dig too hard into her dress. She mimes checking the watch she isn’t wearing. She doesn’t mean to be rude, really—but there are only so many beauty products a person can have dumped on them before they start to get antsy. And only so many hours she can sit still anyways. “I know you’re just trying to help, and I appreciate it, I really do—”

“Clary.” Jocelyn’s voice, gone stern—which is something it doesn’t do often—is enough to make Clary snap her jaw shut. She doesn’t stop fidgeting, of course, but that’s hardly her fault. “You’re right—let me just, ah—” She tugs at a stand of Clary’s hair, twists a few more pins, and the corners of Clary’s lips curve. Jocelyn’s fingers settle back into Clary’s shoulders.

Clary has a feeling she’s going to be getting a speech, and she hates pretty much all Jocelyn’s long dramatic cliche-filled ones. She should at least attempt to listen today, though, because she’s going to be listening to a _lot_ of speeches. She straightens up and looks between herself and Jocelyn in the mirror, tilting her head slowly to one side.

Jocelyn gives a small sigh. She presses her hand into her cheek and looks back at Clary, and then says, “I know at first I disapproved of you and Jace, but you look so happy with him. The happiest I’ve seen you in years.” Clary’s not sure if this is supposed to perk her up, or if it’s Jocelyn proving a point, or neither of the above. “And you lived with me for eighteen years, so...”

“Is that a compliment?” Clary blurts. She has a feeling there’s more to the speech, but, well—she tilts her head to the other side. Her cheeks are still warm and pink beyond the gobs of artificial blush, but for a different reason now. She’s heard married women glow, or that people glow when they’re in love, or is that pregnant women? Jocelyn clicks her tongue, raising her eyebrows, and Clary’s shoulders droop. She smiles, chastised, and adds in an almost-whisper, “I _am_ happy.” It feels like a lie, too clunky on her lips, but she knows it’s true. She’s happy with Jace, she’s the happiest she’s ever been in her life.

Clary must be getting the reflexive cold feet, because her blood is turning to ice. Jocelyn’s fingers drift from Clary’s bare shoulders, cool weight of her wedding band leaving Clary’s skin. “Are you ready to go through with this?” she asks, a concerned look crossing her face.

“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Clary says, and teeters to her feet. She stumbles a little, clutches the counter for support—both because of the high heels she’s not used to walking in (she’s hoping she doesn’t trip walking down the aisle) and sitting so long. “Is Luke—”

“Already at the church,” Jocelyn says, getting that dizzy sappy smile Clary always used to hate before she met Jace. Clary shakes her head, biting down on a smile—Jocelyn and Luke have been married just under ten years, but Jocelyn still gets that grin every time he’s brought up. She shakes herself out of it and pats Clary’s cheek, hand cool. “He and I both love you so much.”

“Despite myself?” She’s only half-joking.

Jocelyn rolls her eyes. “You’re a sweet girl. Anyone—Jace especially—would be lucky to have you,” she says, then pauses. “Well—not _have you_ , because equality in a relationship is important.” Clary giggles. Maureen raps on the door pointedly, and it turns into a full-blown laugh. “And I still can’t believe you’re getting married.”

“You and me both,” Clary says, and swallows.

 

+

 

Perfume and cologne waft through the air, specific mixtures not anything Isabelle Lightwood would be quick to call pleasant. It’s not bad, either, just uncomfortable and sticky. Stained glass windows cast warm lights across the room, painting the aisles in vivid colors that change with the bobbing sun. Lydia keeps shooting Isabelle fake-sappy looks like they’re in a romantic comedy, her arm muscled and firm where it’s tucked into Isabelle’s.

(Isabelle, with great difficulty, had decided going to Jace’s wedding for him outweighed seeing Maryse and Robert here. Maryse, across the room, keeps shooting Isabelle dirty looks, while Robert pretends not to notice her. Isabelle finds she can ignore these.)

Jace’s head is a dot up at the front of the rows, and he’s chatting with a geeky-looking dude with crooked glasses and a lightsaber pin on his lapels. Isabelle pauses, lingering back a few feet, and Lydia untangles their arms. She heads towards another girl, which Isabelle snorts at before making her way to Jace. Her heels clatter against the wood floor, and she makes her entrance with a deliberate, “I still can’t believe you’re getting married,” that makes his back muscles tense.

Jace twists to face her, surprise flickering across his face—it’s closely followed by happiness. She catches his full-on, open-mouthed beam for only a split second, and blinks at the sheer delight in it—that’s something she hasn’t seen in a long time, if at all. He lurches forwards to wrap his arms around her, tight enough that she inhales but manages to choke out a laugh. She hugs him back, a bit startled—she doesn’t think Jace has ever willingly hugged her before. They’re both maybe caught off-guard by it, because after a minute (in which Geeky Dude finds another conversation partner) they jerk back at the same time. Jace’s smile is still broad and open and happy over all.

“Izzy,” he says, in a bright tone that implies if he hadn’t hugged her it’d be an exclamation. He looks to Maryse and Robert with caution, but they’ve turned their silent fury to another corner of the room. “I thought—well, I didn’t think you’d come. I just figured I should invite you, or you’d find out a year later or something.” He laughs, a little self-deprecatory.

“I’m your sister, Jace,” Isabelle says. She shakes her head when she notices his collar is askew, reaching out to smooth the wrinkles in his suit jacket out with a huff. “Of course I’d come to your wedding. Don’t worry, they won’t say anything here.” She knows this from experience: maybe they’ll throw out a few passive-aggressive comments, but nothing extravagant.

“‘Course. Don’t want to make a scene,” Jace says. He rolls his eyes, and adds, leaning forwards, “That was always more Alec’s thing, anyways.” His grin is bright and loose, his shoulders slack for once. Isabelle smiles back at him; it’s easier to laugh when he is, too. “So—how are you, Iz? I haven’t seen you in months.”

Isabelle pinches him on the arm. “You’ve been too busy with that girl, huh?” she teases, with a sharp smile. Jace rubs his arm, where she knows she didn’t pinch hard enough for it to actually hurt. His ears are tinted red, and she grins a little wider at that. “Why haven’t I been able to meet her yet? Afraid she’ll be too charmed by my looks and wit?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Jace snorts and glances away, eyes amber in the light. “You here with anyone?”

“Lydia,” Isabelle says with a shrug. Jace gives a soft _oh_ and nods. “I’ve been busy with school, but they hate Lydia almost as much as they hate me, so.” She’s sure Jace is about to say something about the double majors, so she tunes out for a moment, toying with the edge of her skirt. It’s a few seconds of stiff silence, Jace scrunching his face so about to crack a joke, before a small body barrels into Isabelle and she jumps. “Hi, Max,” she greets without turning. She twists with his scrawny arms twined around her waist, shrugging his hands off. He’s half her height—a little small for a thirteen-year-old, smaller for a thirteen-year-old _Lightwood_. “Well, don’t you look handsome.” Jace huffs a laugh behind her, and she prods at Max’s suit neckline. He’s even wearing polished loafers that look nicer than some of her shoes. “How are you?”

“Good,” Max says, tilting his chin up. His hair’s combed back—part with his own spit, it looks like. His voice cracks a little, and Isabelle stifles a laugh. “Why haven’t you been visiting anymore? I miss you.” He sounds reluctant to admit it.

Isabelle crouches to bring them to eye-level. She scrambles to think up a reason that isn’t _I’m a lesbian and Mom and Dad are assholes—_ despite him being almost fourteen, they won’t let him know about her sexuality. (For Christ’s sake.) “Sometimes life just doesn’t work out,” she settles on. It’s not the whole truth, but it’s still a pretty fat chunk of it. “I’ll try to see you more often, but I’m really busy.”

“Okay.” Max’s shoulders heave as he says it, but some hope drifts into his gaze—which, in Isabelle’s mind, makes it worth it.

“Maxwell,” comes a sharp voice behind them. Maryse, of course, her lip curled and nose wrinkled. She says nothing to Isabelle, instead lowering a vice grip onto Max’s shoulder and fixing her with a nasty look. “Come on. It’s starting soon, we should find our seats.”

Isabelle’s bones crackle when she gets to her feet. Max waves over his shoulder at her, and Isabelle manages to grin back. She turns to see Jace, a look on his face that means he’s about to say something she doesn’t want to hear, so she clears her throat and plasters on a smile. “Isn’t Alec coming?”

“He’s my best man, so I’d sure as hell hope so,” Jace says with a little snort. He catches sight of something over Isabelle’s shoulder, and waves, grinning. “Ah—there he is.”

Isabelle turns to wave, too, but at once whirls back to Jace. “Well, I should go make sure my date doesn’t get too lonely without me, right?”

“I doubt Lydia minds,” Alec deadpans from behind them. Isabelle huffs and smiles at him. She doesn’t lurch forwards for a hug because she knows he’ll stiffen against her and awkwardly pat her back—and anyways, one sibling hug is enough for her today. Alec gestures to the bride’s side of the room, where Lydia is putting all the moves on a girl with curly hair and a big smile. “It’s nice to see you, Izzy,” he adds, a little stiff.

“Nice to see you, too, Alec,” Isabelle says. She folds her hands at her waist and glances between him and Jace, tapping both on either shoulder. “We’ll talk after the wedding,” she tells Alec, “so discuss whatever last-minute wedding things you have to, okay?”

Before either gets a chance to answer, she goes to find her seat. Both Alec and Jace look—happy, really happy, the way she’d never seen them before.

It’s nice.

 

+

 

By the time Clary, Jocelyn, and Maureen pull up to the church, Luke is pacing outside. Maureen mimes bowing to Clary and Jocelyn pats her shoulder and flashes her one last smile before they head towards the doors. Clary braces herself in the SUV for another minute before she follows, her dress’s skirt swiveling around her legs while she moves. She slows her walk a little so as not to trip on the gravel, and stops in front of Luke, who’s stopped to look at her. His hands are shoved into his pockets, a bright smile spreading across his face.

“You look great,” Luke says, a little choked up. Clary grins at him, arms pressed to her side. “I feel like you were ten yesterday,” he adds, and scrubs a hand over his face. “And now you’re getting married.” He blinks a little too fast to be casual. “Wow.”

“It’s not that shocking,” Clary says with a jerky shake of her head. She knows it isn’t what he means. Luke shakes his head back at her. She sways to the side and he crooks an arm into hers, and off they go towards the mossy steps. “Thank you. For, uh, giving me away.” (And so much more, too.) “You’re the closest thing to a dad I’ve got.”

She doesn’t know how to say that, for all intents and purposes, he _is_ her dad, even if not by blood. He’s every bit family to her as Jocelyn is—he’s been there through thick and thin. He’s not the man who Jocelyn had spent years with and gotten married to in a Vegas ceremony too early. He’s not the man who’d abandoned them and gotten himself locked up in some maximum security prison for arson and murder. That man doesn’t even get a place in Clary’s thoughts for more than a few seconds, as far as she’s concerned.

Luke’s smile softens—it’s clear he hears this without her having to voice it. “Of course.”

Piano music drifts out through the door, and Clary sucks in her breath. Luke outstretches his free hand to push open the church doors, and in they go. Everything seems to blur around them, all beautiful, soft edges.

Clary’d dreamed about her wedding day as a child. It’d been her happy place, even before she’d been the ecstatic flower girl at Luke and Jocelyn’s quiet wedding. She’d pictured it, then, as something out of a fairytale. Something like any prince’s royal ball. Something like Belle and the human Beast dancing through the brightened castle. Something like Aladdin and Jasmine lifted up into the air with their magic carpet, fireworks bursting behind them.

Nothing she’d ever thought of back then could compare to now.

Heads twist to follow her down the flower-scattered aisle. Clary’s stomach twists with knots, drawn all tight together like a rope that winds and unwinds with each heavy step. Her hand is numb where Luke’s holding it. She can’t even feel her feet beneath her anymore, swaying as she moves—and this is it. This is it, and she looks into Jace’s eyes across the room where he stands—where he waits—

Clary’s eyes fall on Jace’s first row for a split second. There, her attention’s caught by a woman sitting there: light brown skin, sleek oil-black hair curled along the side of her neck, sparkling onyx eyes. Her strapless gold dress billows out around her ankles, heeled sandles visible there. She’s beautiful, and it weighs Clary down, an iron ball around her stiff ankle. Hell, she’s outshining Clary at her own wedding.

The woman lifts her head and tilts it to one side. A spark runs through Clary—something she can’t explain, something that makes her head snap back to the altar that’s growing steadily closer. Her cheeks grow hot, a shiver running through her. She’s not sure what it is about the woman—her eyes, her hair, her dress, maybe the smile that’s lined in garnet lipstick and hiding a hundred secrets behind her teeth. She feels her gaze dart back to her, a reflex of sorts, but the woman’s attention is back at the front of the room.

And, oh, Jace is taking her hand from Luke and Clary’s grounded again. Jace squeezes her fingers and murmurs, “You look amazing.” There are a dozen more revering compliments in his eyes, all that set into Clary’s skin along with guilt—for what, she’s not sure.

“So do you,” Clary says, shaky. She refrains herself from looking over her shoulder, feeling the woman’s eyes burning into her back. She laughs, weak, and looks to Father Jeremiah. She and Jace’s hands clasp tighter together, and they take a few shuddering footsteps forwards before turning to face each other.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of these witnesses to join Clarissa Fray and Jonathan Lightwood in matrimony commended to be honorable among all,” Father Jeremiah reads. He’s a fairly mundane pastor—ageless face, receding hairline, gold cross necklace hanging from his neck, silver-framed glasses but small scars around his eyes and lips.

(Luke had insisted he could’ve gotten ordained online for twenty bucks or less, but Jace’s parents had wanted a more traditional wedding. Clary and Jace had compromised, hence why they’re in a church, even if Clary’s agnostic and Jace defines himself as a cynical atheist.)

Clary blinks herself in and out of consciousness while Father Jeremiah continues speaking. He rattles off a passage chosen by Maryse and Robert that Clary doesn’t remember or listen to. “Jonathan Clark Lightwood,” he adds, fixing Jace with a look beneath his glasses, “do you take Clarissa Adele Fray to be your wife, to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

Jace’s thumb brushes across Clary’s palm, and his lips twitch up. “I do,” he says. Behind him, a dark-haired man—Alec, Clary assumes, the brother she’s heard about but hasn’t gotten a chance to meet yet—passes him a ring, ornate and expensive. (Jace has refused to tell her how much the ring cost.)

“Repeat after me,” Father Jeremiah says, with a tone of voice far too listless for the happiness jumping in Clary’s veins. He’s probably overseen plenty of weddings just like this before, though. Jace nods, not taking his eyes off Clary. “I, Jonathan Lightwood...”

“I, Jonathan Lightwood...”

“...give you, Clarissa Fray...”

“...give you, Clarissa Fray...”

“...this ring as an eternal symbol of my love and commitment to you.”

“...this ring as an eternal symbol of my love and commitment to you,” Jace finishes, and slips the cool ring onto Clary’s finger. Cool nerves scrape down her spine at the feeling of it snug around her finger. Jace draws her hand to his lips, pressing what barely counts as a kiss to her fourth knuckle, and she giggles.

Father Jeremiah doesn’t let them revel in it for very long. “Clarissa Adele Fray, do you take Jonathan Clark Lightwood to be your husband to have and to hold, for better or worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, from this day forward until death do you part?”

“I do,” Clary says, feeling like it’s been choked out of her, and Alec hands her the other ring—

“Repeat after me,” Father Jeremiah says, and Clary does until she’s sliding Jace’s ring on, breath escaping her chest with one quick exhale. Her heart tightens, her stomach still churning with nerves—but there’s excitement there, too. “By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Father Jeremiah snaps his book shut with a small cloud of dust trailing from it, and looks between Clary and Jace with a bland expression that says he’d rather be anywhere else. “You may now kiss the bride.”

Jace wastes no time with that. His hands are moving before Clary can so much as blink, his fingers looping into her sides. He dips her, and she hears herself laugh but doesn’t feel it going through her chest. She flails for a moment there in mid-air, his stuffy cologne and flowery perfumes from others i the room puffing into her face. Her wrists lock around his neck, and the world moves in slow motion as he leans in to press his lips to hers. His week-old stubble scratches at her chin, and she feels her body drawn tight against his, their mouths locked together in something surprisingly chaste for the glazed look he’d been giving her. Clary’s knees are a second from buckling, and applause and cat-calls burst through the room, booming through Clary’s ears like an out-of-body experience. Like she’s not clinging to Jace’s neckline like it’s a lifeline instead, like their lips aren’t mashing together, like she isn’t in this church with a scorching ring around her finger.

They pull away after hours and not even a full second, both at once. The white walls flash bright against Clary’s eyes, but at least the applause is starting to fade. Her fingers are still digging at Jace’s neck, his hands still situated on her hips, and she can’t bring herself to pull away. She does find herself glancing over her shoulder, towards the front row—the woman’s eyes lift to meet her at once. She chews her lip and looks back to Jace’s face, where he’s frowning.

 _You okay?_ he mouths.

She swallows. _Fine,_ she mouths back.

“I present to you: Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood,” Father Jeremiah announces.

Clary decides she’ll hash out the details of her name later, and bites down to keep from saying anything and instead straightening. She clutches Jace’s hand a little tighter than she needs to, and they go back down the aisle.

Clary almost doesn’t hear the applause this time.

 

+

 

Usually the women who look at Isabelle like that are not walking down the aisle. Usually the women who look at Isabelle like that are down the hall of her apartment complex, or over the counter at some retail store, or at least not at their own weddings. (She’ll admit that it’s happened at other people’s weddings before.)

Lydia catches her staring after Clary and Jace have strolled out together. She notches her arm into hers with a mutter of, “Please don’t sleep with your sister-in-law.”

“I’m not going to,” Isabelle says, offended. Lydia arches an eyebrow and huffs and knocks her braid back along her neck. Isabelle hates it when she does that.

At the reception, Isabelle swerves through lines of people, all clumped together. Some love song from the sixties is blaring behind them—it’s kinda catchy. She keeps her arms at her sides, plucking at the skirt of her dress. She could’ve worn something more casual, she could’ve worn something that went well with the wedding’s actual color theme—but, well, she looks good in the dress and she’ll leave it at that. Heads spiral away from their partners, mouths widen caught in mid-laughter, and Isabelle holds a dazzling smile as she makes her way to the punch. And Clary, in front of it.

Clary’s back is to her, a stretch of pale skin visible before the spaghetti straps and back of her dress, but the hair is unmistakable. “Hi,” Isabelle greets. Clary tenses—automatic, it seems—and twists to face her, her hands tucked behind her back and a grin on her face. Clary’s expression isn’t suspicious in the same way water isn’t wet. “I’m Isabelle. Jace’s sister?”

“Oh!” Clary jolts forwards, toothy beam a little less strained. Isabelle stretches out a hand to her, but it’s a little clumsy because Clary offers her right hand but so does Isabelle. When they lock Isabelle’s left hand and Clary’s right, Clary laughs, too pitchy to be 100% real. “I’m Clary. Well. Obviously.” She chews her lip and glances to the ceiling. “Oh my God, please forget I said that.”

Isabelle snorts and nods. “I was just going to get some punch,” she tries to say, but Clary’s blocking her way there, and shifts when she tries to get to the bowl. Isabelle frowns and tilts her head at her.

“I. Uh.” Clary’s gaze skirts around them, fingers tapping along the glittery edge of her jaw (Magnus had clearly gotten to her) before confiding in a whisper, “I kinda dropped my ring in there.”

“Oh.” Isabelle swallows a laugh and peeks behind her. Everyone seems occupied—Maryse and Robert are deep in conversation with who must be Clary’s parents. Clary’s eyes keep jumping straight to them; it’s not hard to tell she’s already been through what they’d call a conversation and Clary would call torture. “I get butterfingers after I spent more than a minute talking to my parents, too. I’ll—have you looked for it?”

“Everyone keeps coming over here to offer their congratulations, so—”

“Shove over.” Isabelle reaches for the ladle. She grabs a plastic cup from a stack off to the side—everything at the reception that Isabelle’s seen has been cheap and flimsy, a contrast to the extravagant wedding. She peers into the punch, where chunks of confetti stick up like weeds in grass. She prods around them and comes up with something small and silver in her second spoonful. “Jesus,” she says, squinting at the glowing ring, “how much did Jace spend on this?”

Clary’s fingers dart out to snag it from the ladle at once. She slips it onto her own finger in another blink, with a relieved sigh, and then she looks back up to Isabelle. “He won’t tell me,” she says, and shrugs. “So I’m assuming it was over a hundred.” Isabelle can see that happening, so she rolls her eyes for Jace’s sake and tips a couple more spoonfuls of punch into her cup. (Already has it, no point in putting it back down and mingling some more.) “Um—what do you do? Sorry, it hasn’t really come up in conversation.”

The look Clary is giving Isabelle is starting to distract her, and she gulps down her punch before she answers. “I’m finishing up my last year in college,” she says, and Clary blinks at her. “Double chemistry and fashion design major. My parents and I don’t have the best relationship, so Jace and I don’t see each other a lot.” Clary’s eyes have widened further at the _double major_ part, and Isabelle flashes a shiny grin at her. “Yeah, I haven’t decided what I’m going to do with my life yet. Funny, you’d think I’d know at twenty-three, right?”

“I didn’t think I’d be getting married so soon,” Clary says. She glances to the ceiling, not quite mournful but not overjoyed either. “But something about Jace..we’ve barely been dating a year, but we just—I don’t know. Clicked, I guess.”

“Hm.” A few drops of red slosh over the edge of Isabelle’s cup. “Well, I’ve never seen him so sappy over someone before. You scored pretty good with this one, Clary.” She grins into her drink. Clary blushes prettily, and Isabelle’s sip might be a little too long this time. “What about you? What do you do?”

“I’m an artist,” Clary says, perking up. “My best friend—Simon, over there”—she gestures to Geeky Dude, who’s attempting to dance with a dark-haired girl who looks a lot like him—“and I are working on this graphic novel. We’re both writing it, but I’m illustrating the whole thing.” She laughs, animated and bright talking about it. “It’s about—oh, you don’t wanna hear about it, do you?”

Isabelle leans back. “Of course I do,” she says.

“So,” Clary says, eyes shining, “it’s about this team of people who fight demons and protect mortal humans from the fact that demons, you know, exist.” She scratches the side of her neck, flushing bright pink. “We’re still working out all the details, but I think you’d like it. Uh, are you into fantasy?”

“It sounds really interesting,” Isabelle says. She’s not sucking up, either—it does. “I’m sure you’re a great artist.”

Clary rubs her cheek. “Thank you.” She looks to the side. “I think Jace is, uh, motioning for me to go dance with him, so—”

“Go dance with your husband,” Isabelle says. She ignores the pang in her chest when Clary obliges, shooting her a skittish smile.

 

+

 

Jace will make comments about it later, but Clary feels no embarrassment at peeling off her heels as soon as she takes her seat for toasts. There aren’t enough chairs, so Jace squeezes in beside her, leaving her half-sprawled across his lap. She’s at least wearing tights, not minding keeping her feet off the floor. Her thighs press against Jace’s, a little uncomfortable in how sticky she is with sweat from the wedding, and dancing. Jace’s arm falls around her, and it’s natural and perfect and Clary thinks, for a second, _I could be happy like this._

She thinks this, and then she catches Isabelle’s dark eyes where she’s situated across the room, muttering to a blonde woman. Clary doesn’t know why her gaze keeps getting drawn to Isabelle, why she keeps getting caught up in that glittering smile. She pulls her gaze away with effort, and stares instead into the bottom of her wine glass. She could be happy like this, but only if she lets herself. Only if she doesn’t ruin it.

Alec—who’d introduced himself to Clary with a head jerk and a brisk hand shake before disappearing back into the crowd after Maryse and Robert started their approach—gives the first speech. It’s cool and efficient, but laced with underlying affection for Jace, and he even ends with a broad smile around the words, “I’m glad you’re happy, Jace. To Mr. and Mrs. Lightwood.” Clary thinks there’s more to it than that, but doesn’t say anything—just clinks glasses with Jace and tips her head back.

“I’m not changing my last name, just so you know,” she says in a low tone to Jace, setting her glass back down. She blinks away the blur in her vision—she’s anything but a lightweight, she just hasn’t had even a little sip of alcohol since her twenty-first birthday. (Simon had, she’ll put it, gone over the top. They don’t talk about it.)

“Can we settle for a hyphen?” Jace retorts, and leans in to peck her cheek.

Clary laughs. “You’re not that convincing.” The next table over, Simon stands with a nervous laugh. “Shh, Simon’s talking.” She presses a finger to Jace’s mouth, and hears him clamp his jaw shut.

Seven minutes later, and Simon is clearing his throat and finishing a story with: “...and that’s how I knew Clary and I were going to be best friends.” Laughter washes over the room in waves—some strained; some polite; some already too loud. Clary bites out a snort of her own while Jace wheezes beside her. Where Simon stands, his gaze softens. He pushes his glasses up, and says, “I’ve known her since then, yeah, but I haven’t ever seen her fall for anyone like she has Jace. I think a little while ago, I would’ve been really jealous of this jerk”—Isabelle’s laugh is loudest of all, over Jace’s indignant _hey!_ —“but now I’m just glad Clary’s so happy. I’ve never seen her smile like she is now before.”

Clary ducks her head, her cheeks warm with both the alcohol and the embarrassment clawing at her. Jace nudges her in the side, making soft, mocking _awwww_ noises.

“So—a toast to Mrs. Fray—she’ll refuse to speak to me if I don’t call her that, sorry—and Mr. Lightwood!”

“Thanks, Simon,” Clary shouts before swallowing half of what’s left in her drink. “I told him when we were eight I wouldn’t take his last name, no way in hell am I changing those rules for you,” she tells Jace, loud enough that Simon snorts.

Jace pulls a mock-offended face, lower lip going out and everything. “I’m offended,” he says, sniffing. “I’d at least think I outrank puppy dog here.”

“Sure, Captain America.” Simon shakes his head, then blinks twice and flushes, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud. He turns back to his drink with the most suspicious whistle Clary’s ever heard, and she lifts her eyebrows. (Though she shouldn’t talk about lack of suspicion, given how she’d met Jace’s sister not twenty minutes ago.)

“If you don’t mind,” chimes in—of course—Isabelle, smiling, “I’d like to give a speech, too.”

Jace blinks, looking taken aback as the room’s attention turns on Isabelle. “Of course, Izzy,” he says, warm. “The floor’s all yours.”

Isabelle glances around, and rises from her seat like a goddess—all glitter and gold, eyes passing over the crowd and landing on JaceandClary. (They’re pressed so close together they might as well be just one person. And Isabelle is looking at both of them, isn’t she?) “I’ve known Jace since I was eight,” she says. “He’s a good person—I could see it then, and I can see it now.” Her fingers tap along the table, and her eyes flicker to Maryse and Robert, who both hide their glares. “That being said, he’s a stubborn ass and I never thought I’d see the day where I’d be at his wedding. Clary, you’re way too nice for him, you’ll be divorced within the year.”

“Hey,” Jace protests. Clary giggles along with the rest of the room.

Isabelle blows Jace a sarcastic kiss and wink. “Sorry. You know I love you,” she says. It sounds almost like a question—but not, at the same time. If that’s possible. “How does it feel being married?”

Jace pauses, his knuckles bruised white around his glass. He seems almost caught off-guard by the question, blinking in surprise—which is rare for him. “It feels... right,” he says, and tightens his grip around Clary’s shoulder.

Isabelle’s eyebrow drifts somewhere into her hair, though her smile softens around the edges. There’s something warm but brittle in her eyes. “You look the happiest I can remember in the fourteen years I’ve seen you,” she says. The sincerity in her voice surprises Clary, who had expected her to crack a joke. “I think that’s a good thing. And I’m happy that you’re so happy now.” There’s something mournful that flashes through her gaze, for a split second, before it’s gone. Maybe it wasn’t there in the first place, a trick of the light. “To the groom,” she calls, “and his lovely bride.”

Clary feels a chill run down her spine as the room echoes the words, none coming out with the same almost-purr as Isabelle’s. She chases the feeling away with another sip of wine and a plastered-on smile.

 

+

 

April comes, and Isabelle, once again, finds herself studying at a bustling Starbucks off-campus. Plenty of other students are scattered through the tables and couches inside—enough that, in the mid-afternoon rush, the only free seat Isabelle can find is outside. The sun glares down on her, and she keeps adjusting the height of the table umbrella so she can see the textbook she’s taking notes on. It’s basic chemistry, things she learned in high school, but she writes anyways. She squints at her tidy calligraphy fading to a slanted scrawl and the press of her pencil on the page hard enough to tear her paper a little.

Isabelle reaches for her cooling mocha frappuccino without glancing up. “Hey,” a voice says, across from her. It’s startling enough that Isabelle breaks her pencil led and almost spills her coffee looking up at her.

It’s a specific someone, with flaming hair and wide eyes and isn’t it just Isabelle’s luck that it’s been a month since the wedding and she’s thought about Clary Fray every day since. (Lydia’d called her pathetic for her “pining”—Isabelle had protested this, as she does not _pine_ —but had shut up pretty quickly when Isabelle pointed out the lack of girls in her recent life.) She drags her bag into her lap and rummages for led and a spare eraser, scowling down at her notes.

“Sorry. Is this a bad time?”

“You interrupted my studying,” Isabelle says, then pauses for effect so Clary’s starting to apologize when she continues, “so I’d say that’s pretty good.” Clary relaxes, though jumping when Isabelle comes across an eraser and container of led and crows in triumph. “Hi, by the way.” She pushes up her glasses.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses,” Clary says.

Isabelle shrugs. “They’re reading glasses. I only wear them when the words start changing or floating off the page.” She flips over a page of her textbook, and starts scribbling again.

Clary sits in silence for a couple more minutes. Isabelle tips her coffee back, and Clary pipes up, “Are you doing anything tonight?”

Isabelle sets her coffee down with a high whistle that makes several other customers jerk their heads towards her. She scrubs at her paper, which makes a dangerous tearing noise. “How forward of you, Mrs. Fray,” she says, shooting Clary an exaggerated look beneath her lashes.

“With Jace and me,” Clary clarifies, face red. Isabelle glances up out of the corners of her eyes, takes a good look at Clary: her ponytail’s coming undone in the breeze, strands of red hair swiped across her cheeks. She looks odd in clothes that aren’t a wedding dress and heels she can’t walk in—a ratty tank top that’s too big on her and has a paint stain across the middle, torn denim shorts, beaten-up sneakers. Her ring looks out of place with the cheap clothes, but she seems to wear it proudly, not hiding her fingers or anything. “He wants to have a normal sibling relationship with you, and I’d like to get to know you better.”

Isabelle doesn’t say, _I’d like to get to know you, too._ Isabelle doesn’t say, _Why did you marry my brother when you keep looking at me like that?_ Isabelle doesn’t say, _Why don’t we make it just the two of us?_ Isabelle says, “That sounds nice. Thank you.” It sounds stiff and rehearsed on her lips, forced into a smile, but at least she manages to fight off all the other words she keeps thinking.

“Okay!” Clary returns the smile, only it’s real and twice as stunning. Isabelle feels her insides dip and pinch in a way that isn’t because of the coffee. “I—wait. I don’t have your phone number, do I?”

Isabelle huffs. “Give me your phone,” she says, and holds out her hand. Clary passes her her iPhone after a moment of fumbling. Isabelle taps her number in, watching her nails dance across the screen. She signs her name in as _izzy_ with two sparkly heart emojis following, because she can and she’s determined to dig herself a deeper grave than she’s already arranged for herself. “There you go.”

She hands the phone back over, and Clary snorts at the name. “Okay,” she says, again. “I’ll text you after Jace and I get the plans fleshed out, but I was thinking that IHOP off fourteenth?” Isabelle nods. “Five-thirty good for you?”

“Sounds great,” Isabelle says, and downs another quarter of her coffee.

 

+

 

Simon picks at the neckline of his Batman shirt, glasses and hair both shining with grease. He’s not quite meeting Clary’s eyes. “You’re sure she seems like she’d be into me?” he asks for the hundredth time in a row.

Clary bats his hands away from his shirt, and decides not to comment on... well, anything. Simon’s been her best friend since second grade, and she loves him (platonically) with all her heart, but sometimes. _Sometimes._ “Of course,” she repeats for, also, the hundredth time in a row. It grows more exasperated each time. “When I saw her earlier she was wearing a _Star Wars_ shirt.” (And looked very nice in it, but of course Clary can’t say that.) “Besides, you’re smart, funny, sweet, and handsome. Who wouldn’t be into you?” He preens at that, fighting a grin. Clary pats his shoulder.

He allows himself a slight one-sided grin, teeth glinting, before he points out, “You, but that’s not the point. And yeah, I know, it’s different, as you wrote a speech on. And I’m over it now, really.” Simon shrugs at her. Clary rolls her lips together to keep everything from spilling loose. “I think my decision was made at ‘ _Star Wars_ shirt’, anyways.”

He tosses her an easy, puppy-dog smile. Clary’s reminded of Jace’s comment at the reception, and busies her hands with a scab on her wrist instead of ruffling his hair. She pulls her fingers away and checks her phone again. Isabelle’s double heart emojis keep catching her eye. It doesn’t mean anything, but somehow it makes her heart rate skyrocket. It’s fifteen to five, and Jace texts her back, letting her know he’ll be late working on a case but can get off for a break later. She types the news out to Isabelle, and gets a _friend has my car, can you pick me up? thanks btw!! <3_ and an address in response. She refuses to let that affect her.

“She’ll be there,” she tells Simon, who brightens. “We’ll have to go pick her up—I didn’t let her know you were coming, though, should I—”

Simon glances, a little sheepish, to his shoes. “Maybe,” he says. “Or we could have it be, like, a blind date or something? It’s your choice, I guess.”

Clary considers it a moment, before tucking her phone away. “She lives in an apartment downtown, so we should probably head out now,” she says. There are a few questions in Simon’s eyes, but he shrugs and doesn’t say anything. Clary swipes her keys off the cabinet near the door and passes them over. She’s not too afraid about crashing the car because of her hands shaking from a simple text from her husband’s sister.

Ha. Right. She’s not terrified about that at all.

Outside the apartment complex stands Isabelle, a dark red jacket tossed over her T-shirt and washed jeans. A ruby necklace gleams even from the distance. She grins at the sight of them. Clary hops out of the car to greet her, beaming right back. Her hands have stopped shaking. “Hey,” she says, lightly teasing, “long time no see.”

“Long time no see,” Isabelle echoes. She glances over Clary’s shoulder to the car, where Simon’s elbows are hanging out of the window. “That’s... Simon, right?”

“Yeah,” Clary says. Isabelle gives a short nod. “He didn’t have anything to do, so I figured I might as well invite him, too.” It’s not really a lie. There’s a little crease between Isabelle’s eyebrows, and Clary’s stomach twists at that. She clears her throat and says, “Jace got caught up in work, so he’ll be late.”

Isabelle tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, pearl earrings sparkling. “Not surprising,” she says, a little twitch at the corner of her lips. Clary’s looking her over when she notices the small stud in Isabelle’s nose, which shouldn’t be a _thing_. “He always got really absorbed in his schoolwork.” She pauses. “We should go, right?”

Isabelle and Simon shake hands between the back and driver’s seats, Isabelle offering a shaky smile. Clary straps herself in and rolls her eyes at Simon’s pointed look. They drive in relative silence, Clary peering out the window as buildings and trees blur by. She’s blinking and stumbling out when they reach the IHOP, bright lights making her rub her adjusting eyes. Clary and Isabelle climb out before Simon does, standing together on the sidewalk for a few minutes while he stops the car.

“You know,” Isabelle says, “with a guy like Simon, I’d expect some big colorful van.”

Clary doesn’t see it fit to admit that she’s right—or at least to the fact that Simon had owned a van in senior year, when he’d been convinced his destiny was to start a band. The van, of course, had gotten tagged more times than he would admit. (And it’s Clary’s hand-me-down car, anyways.) “A guy like Simon, huh?”

“Sure.” Isabelle shrugs, something like intrigue sparking in her gaze. She taps her nails along her hip, and Clary, for a second, is caught by the glitter of her nails, polished in zig-zagging black and red. “Colorful. Creative. Like you, kinda, but different.” There’s something more to it—the way she eyes the darkening sky, lips quivering and pressing together. Clary doesn’t point it out, and forgets about it as soon as she looks up to see Simon holding the doors open for them. They trail together, arms brushing, and idle conversation flowing onto another topic.

Clary’s never talked with someone like—so musical, so immediate, so relaxed. Even with Jace, it’d been awkward and clumsy the first few weeks of their relationship—

And why is she comparing her friendship with Isabelle to her marriage to Jace? Clary shakes her head to herself, aware Isabelle’s look is just on the edge of concerned. She shrugs it off, fitting on a smile.

She’s sure she, Isabelle, and Simon make a ragtag gang—less so than if Jace was with them, too—and the hostess looks like she’s holding back from giving them odd looks. She smiles and leads them to a table by the window. Simon orders iced tea, Isabelle and Clary both stick with water. A strange feeling sets into Clary’s stomach at Isabelle smiling in the seat across from her and the empty seat next to hers.

The conversation rises and falls. Included in the topics are—Simon’s official job (“You’re an accountant?” Isabelle asks, polite enough not to outright laugh but lax enough to grin); the graphic novel (“Oh, yeah, it’s badass,” Simon says, before launching into an explanation that sounds like it’s been rehearsed); and _Star Wars_.

The last has launched into Clary, Isabelle, and Simon all arguing about the prequels when Jace shows up. He’s still in uniform, unbuttoning his jacket as he bustles into the seat beside Clary and greets her with a kiss to the cheek. “I can only stay for maybe twenty minutes.” He waves at Isabelle and Simon, who smile back. “We just got a huge lead, and Luke was willing to give me the rest of the night off, but I figured it would be better to take a snack break now and finish up.” He grabs a menu and flickers through it, looking back up for a second. “I didn’t know Simon was coming—not that it’s not nice to see you.”

Simon looks pleasantly amused, caught half-sentence about how great Anakin Skywalker was before he turned to the Dark Side. Clary shrugs and says, “Sorta a last minute thing.” Her skin burns where Jace had kissed her. Jace’s arm falls around her, and she leans into it though it makes her cringe.

Their waitress drops in to take Jace’s order (Isabelle having ordered french toast, Simon Belgian waffles, and Clary blueberry pancakes). The awkward conversation is resumed, with Jace making small talk about the case he’s working and sparing no details. (It’s, luckily, just a burglary case, no body count yet.) By the time the waitress drops off the food and told Jace his banana crepes will be out in a few more minutes, Simon’s turning to Isabelle to ask, “What do you do?”

Isabelle blinks, then sits up a little straighter. “I don’t have, like, an actual job yet. I’ve been meaning to look for one, but Alec and Jace help out with my apartment. Magnus, too, where he can—he’s Alec’s boyfriend, I think you met him at the wedding.” She looks at Clary, nibbling on her toast's crust. Clary nods—it’d been brief, but she’d liked him. There’d been a certain charm to him. “I’m majoring in both chemistry and fashion design. I’m in my last year of college, and there’s only a couple months left, so here’s hoping I get through that without killing anyone.”

Simon tilts his head. “That’s cool,” he says after a couple beats, eyes blowing wide. He slices his waffles, knife scraping against his plate with a cringe-worthy noise. “I mean, not the killing thing—killing’s bad and will wind you up in jail, especially since your brother’s a cop, but—” Jace makes a noise that’s half-whine, half-laugh. Simon cuts off, going pink. “The whole double major thing. That’s cool. I don’t think I’d be able to do that—chemistry and fashion design, though? How’d you decide on those?”

“I’ve always liked fashion, and science has always been interesting to me.” Isabelle pauses to swallow, and Jace punctuates with a cough that sounds a lot like _Nerd!_ “I don’t know what I want as an actual career choice—I started out with a minor in fashion design, a major in chem, but a few months into freshman year I decided to go with the double major. I was already working pretty hard, so I figured, why not?” She shrugs and turns back to her food. Clary holds back a ditzy sigh.

“Wow,” Simon says, faint. He’s blinking in a way that suggests his brain’s shorted out for a moment, but manages to pick his jaw up enough to say, again, “Wow. I mean, uh.” He coughs into his fist. “You’re really smart—obviously—and nice and cool and pretty? I’d... kinda like to go out again sometime. Just the two of us.”

Clary winces. He follows this up by cramming a forkful of waffle into his mouth before he can say anything else—a wise choice, in Clary’s opinion. Isabelle opens her mouth and crinkles her eyebrow. Dryly, she says, “I appreciate it, Simon, but if you’re looking for a date, I’m a lesbian.”

There’s silence for a few seconds, then Clary and Simon burst out at the same time—

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.” Clary stops there, chewing her lips, but Simon rambles on: “I mean, I’m pan, so I get it but—”

Isabelle waves a hand to cut him off. She’s smiling a little, and shrugs. “It’s cool.” She considers Simon for a moment, then pats her lips and his cheek, leaving dusty red fingerprints there and making him look about ready to faint. “At least now I have friends outside my brothers and Lydia.”

Jace’s hand jerks like he’s going to pat her shoulder, but stops, eyeing the distance across the table. The waitress swings by to set down his crepes, which he starts digging into at once. The conversation flows a little easier after that, given that Simon isn’t trying as hard to impress her and Clary doesn’t have to act as an awkwardness buffer.

(At least, unless it’s her own awkwardness.)

 

+

 

“Sorry about that,” Clary says, settling Isabelle’s jacket onto the coat rack. Rain splatters the house’s window, and Isabelle tries not to snoop too much, sparing a glance around the main room. It’s as bland as she’d expect from Jace—pale yellow walls, light hardwood floors, everything neat and tucked away into its place. With him sharing a house with an artist, though, maybe she’d expected it to be a little messier than Jace’s typical. “I really didn’t know.”

“Stop apologizing,” Isabelle says, rolling her eyes. Clary had dropped Simon off back at his place after Jace had headed back to work, and offered to bring Isabelle back to her apartment, too, and she’d declined in favor of this.

She glances to the photographs along the walls: there’s one, hanging crooked, of Isabelle and Jace and Alec at the wedding, with Max’s head just visible at the frame. There’s another of Jace and Clary walking back down the aisle together, taken from a side view and looking like a dream of a fairytale.

“It’s not your fault,” Isabelle adds. “Well—it kind of is. But I’m fine.” She flashes a grin at Clary, whose shoulders go slack.

They end up sprawled across the couch together, watching whatever romantic comedy is on TV. It’s one starring Sandra Bullock, which is to say Isabelle has no idea which one of her movies it is. Clary is silent next to Isabelle until about thirty minutes in, when she says, “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

Isabelle glances up. “Not really.” She smiles, a little grim, and studies Clary—the set of her pale shoulders, the hope passing through her eyes. “I didn’t think Jace did, either. It’d be hard to be that optimistic growing up in our family.” She looks at her hands, the Lightwood ring that she forgets about so often—that she puts on every morning more of habit than any real obligation to her family, now—glinting. “Then he met you.”

“Oh.” Isabelle looks back to Clary to see surprise in her gaze, her smile brightening a notch. “Well—it wasn’t really a love at first sight thing. He works under my stepdad, Luke, so I visited Luke at work a lot. Jace started making asshole comments to me when Luke wasn’t paying attention. I told him off for it once. He didn’t talk to me for three weeks—I think he was scared of me—and then he apologized and asked for a date to make up for it.” She ducks her head, face tinted red. “And we’ve been dating since. It was pretty awkward at first, but we made it work. Clearly.”

“Cute.”

Clary peers back up at Isabelle beneath her bangs. “He’d appreciate that,” she says, with a little giggle and a smile tugging at her lips, “but we all know no matter how much he brags, I’m the more attractive one.”

“Well, yeah,” Isabelle says, with a half-grin, “but I’d be biased, I guess.”

Clary only seems to flush harder at that. She tucks back a curl of hair and taps her nail against the remote, eyes on the TV without really paying attention. Isabelle keeps looking at her until her expression sobers and she says, “So you don’t believe you could just look across the room and just—click with someone? It doesn’t even have to be a romantic thing, you could just see somebody and somehow know you’re going to be friends for the rest of your lives.”

“This is getting philosophical,” Isabelle says skeptically, drawing another huffed laugh from Clary. “Well, I’m a scientist, and there are studies love at first sight could be a biological function.” Clary blinks in a flutter of eyelashes that looks like closing butterfly wings. “Hey, just be glad I don’t tell you the details of my thesis.”

They’re both ignoring the movie at this point. “I could try listening if you want to tell me about your chemistry stuff.” Isabelle blinks. When she opens her eyes again, Clary’s closer than she’d been the last time she’d looked. “That’s what friends do, right? Listen.”

“Yeah,” Isabelle says, faint. “Friends.”

Clary’s smile is like the damn sun, and Isabelle feels like she’s talking herself off a ledge when she opens her mouth to spin chemistry into silk. Or, in this case, an interesting topic of conversation with someone who knows jackshit about it. As she is, she notices the color of Clary’s eyes and how warm her fingers are when they brush against her arms.

Jace comes home when she’s just wrapped up with all she can manage in this proximity. He drops her off at home and smiles at her and he can’t have any idea, which makes it worse somehow.

Isabelle finds herself biting back an apology and standing in her complex’s stairwell for more than a few minutes. _Goddammit._

 

+

 

Time passes. At the end of May, Isabelle graduates. Clary grins at her across the wet lawn—somehow Isabelle’s blindingly beautiful even in clumpy robes when the air is crusty and humid. They hug in the middle of the crowd, Clary somehow getting to her before the others who’d shown up for her can. Isabelle looks tired but the beam never leaves her face—at least, until they go out to dinner and she gets a clipped congratulatory text from Maryse and Robert. Clary doesn’t ask, and Isabelle doesn’t volunteer to tell.

In early June, it’s Max Lightwood’s last day of middle school. He gives a presentation, and Clary, who’d talked to him maybe two minutes at the reception, shakes hands with him under Maryse and Robert’s watchful eyes. He seems too grown up for a fourteen-year-old. It’s a little sad, Clary thinks, how his parents’ influence has made him grow up so fast—she can’t tell if it’s a facade or not, if it’s him pretending to win their approval. Maybe it isn’t that deep.

The last scorching week of June, Clary’s dumping colorful cereal boxes into the cart when Isabelle walks straight into the cart. She isn’t alone, Clary notes, with a blonde in a muscle tank flanking her. (Clary thinks she saw the other woman at the wedding, maybe, talking to Maureen.)

“Oh my God, hi.” Isabelle’s teeth flash. Her hair’s scooped back with metallic pins that remind Clary of the dozens Jocelyn had used for her wedding. There’s a basket tucked under one of Isabelle’s arms, and she shifts to balance it. “I actually meant to call you and Jace later today.” The woman beside her is giving her a flat look that Isabelle sighs at. “Clary, you haven’t met Lydia, have you?” Clary shakes her head. “Clary Fray, Lydia Branwell. Lydia, Clary. Lydia was once my brother’s fake fiancee, if you haven’t heard that story yet.”

Clary stretches out a hand. Lydia takes it with practiced ease, her blank eyes turning cool. “We both needed a beard,” she says, calm. “That’s not a first-meeting conversation, is it?” Her ponytail swishes around the sharp edges of her face. Somehow, she looks hard but somehow still softened in some places. “I’ve heard a lot about you from Izzy.” There’s something secretive in the small, awkward smile she gives Clary.

“Really?” Clary glances to Isabelle, face warming. Lydia’s smile broadens. Clary’s laugh is too high and reedy, and she winces at the sound of it. “Jace is in the fruit aisle, he—”

“Morning, Iz,” chimes in the voice that should make Clary relax but instead makes her shoulders tense more. Jace drops the bag of apples into the cart and tosses Isabelle and Lydia one of his charming smiles. “And Lydia. How are you? I know Izzy brought you as a date to the wedding, but we didn’t get a chance to talk then.”

Clary’s still stuck on the _date to the wedding_ part when Lydia laughs and says, “I’m good. It’s been too long, Jace.”

“So,” Clary cuts in. All three heads turn to her, and she can feel her face heat before she says, “Are you two, like—a couple, or—”

Lydia blinks twice and then snorts, loud enough to make a nearby woman steer her son by the shoulders away from them. “Oh, no,” she says. She clasps a hand over her mouth, muffled laughter still escaping. “No,” she repeats, and pulls her hand away, grinning. She throws an arm around Isabelle, who doesn’t laugh but is biting her lip a little too hard. “We tried, once, after Alec and I fake-broke up—it was, what’s the word—”

“Disastrous,” Isabelle and Jace provide in unison. They look at each other and share a snicker. Jace pats Clary’s shoulder in a pale attempt at comfort, given that his shoulders are trembling with silent laughter.

“We’re just friends,” Isabelle adds. “Don’t worry, I’m not having any sort of illicit affair with my brother’s fake ex.”

Lydia’s expression sobers. She considers Isabelle, head tilted and the kind of small grin that makes goosebumps lift on Clary’s arms despite the heat. “Besides,” she says, mock-casual but enough underlying something to make Isabelle’s muscles go taut and eyes snap onto hers, “she loves another.” Lydia’s eyes are still cool when they pass over Clary. There’s a bit of indignance there in the minute curl of her lip, one twitch away from a calculating smile. Clary’s fingers itch for a pencil and paper at the statuesque inspiration she gets from the face—her heart flutters at the words that sink in a moment too late.

Jace, beside Clary, tenses. “What?” he asks, voice small and resigned and almost the quietest Clary’s ever seen him. Isabelle’s gaze drops to her shoes, a bit of guilt and brief anger flashing through her eyes. “Izzy!” Jace sucks in his breath through his teeth. His fingers tap across Clary’s knuckles, a reflexive movement. “Why haven’t I heard about this yet? I mean, I’m your brother—”

Isabelle lifts her head, a single strand of dark hair flecked across her cheek. All the ease that had been present before is gone. It’s like Clary’s blinked and Isabelle’s hardened, somehow—coal pressured into diamond rather than dust. Her expression flickers, changing a million miles a second: from sadness to anger to despair and back again. She seems to be calculating her answer, though Jace’s expression grows more hurt by the second. Eventually, Isabelle settles on: “Sorry. I just don’t think it’s going to work out.”

Understanding goes through Jace’s face. “Straight girl crush?” he guesses, with a cringe for her sake.

“Something like that,” Isabelle says. She looks between them, her hands stiff at her sides. “Well. I’ll talk to you later, I guess.” She waves, half-hearted, and promptly turns on her heel and is across the room in the blink of an eye.

Lydia’s eyes follow her as she goes. “I shouldn’t have said anything,” she says, guilt in both her voice and face. She glances to Isabelle where she’s standing at a self check-out, shoving everything into a plastic bag with more force than Clary thinks is necessary. “She really likes this girl. She doesn’t want to screw it up.” For whatever reason, her eyes narrow in accusation, and fall on Clary. “I don’t think she’d want me to tell you that much about her.”

Jace wrinkles his nose. “It’s not, like, Kaelie, is it?”

“You think she’d go for someone with hair that green after Meliorn?” Lydia asks, dry. Jace opens his mouth and shuts it again, finding no suitable answer. “I know you’re just worried about her. She knows you’re just worried about her. But it’s, well, a touchy subject.”

“I know my sister,” Jace says, more a question. Lydia looks him over, head tipping to the opposite side. Clary’s eyes dart between them, like she’d watching a tennis match and hasn’t yet decided whose side she’s on. Jace sighs, drops his hands into his pockets. “Tell her it was nice to see her.”

“Will do,” Lydia says, with a jerky nod. She looks at Clary, smiling again, but Clary gets the vibe it isn’t completely genuine. “It was nice meeting you, Mrs. Lightwood.”

“It’s Fray,” Clary protests, weak, but Lydia’s already broken into a jog. Clary, butterflies still settling in her stomach, presses her hand into Jace’s. Their fingers lace together atop their cart’s handlebar, and for a second she can pretend that this is what she really wants. “It’s okay. She’s your sister. She knows you, too.”

Jace’s smile is just as fake and sure to drop any moment as hers, but he squeezes her hand. “I know she knows,” he says. “I just—we’ve never been as close with each other as either of us have been with Alec.” He looks miserable: his shoulders are drooping, he’s avoiding her eyes, he’s blinking every second.

“It’ll all work out,” Clary tells him, unsure if it’s to reassure him or herself.

He nods, and steers them down the dairy aisle. Clary takes the hint, and drops the subject.

 

+

 

Isabelle’s phone ringing brings her out of a dreamless sleep. Maybe it’s unprofessional for her to not have been up already—given that her too-bright phone display blinks a firm _12:33_  at her—but hell, she’d graduated not even a month ago and still hasn’t managed to get herself a job. (Which, in retrospect, she should do soon.) Of course it’s Jace calling her, and Isabelle stares at the screen a little longer than is necessary.

Jace’s contact image is one of him at the wedding reception: smashed, eagle-spread across a table with an orange-tinted stain on his shirt and Sharpie scribbles all over his face. Isabelle assumes the Sharpie is Simon’s doing. In the background, she can just make out Maryse and Robert’s distinct figures barely masking their horror. On the other side, Jocelyn Fray and Luke Garroway hide their laughter.

And that, she guesses, is the difference between them—the Lightwoods, whose motto is (Isabelle would guess) something along the lines of _no guts, no glory_ —and the Frays. Clary. Clary’s parents are her friends; Isabelle’s (and Jace’s and Alec’s and Max’s) have never made an effort to be anything other than her parents. And they don’t even do a good job at that. Jace and Clary—and Isabelle and Clary, by extension—are nothing alike in their bringing up, how they were taught to think and how they still catch themselves thinking sometimes. The phrase “opposites attract” applies, in part, to them. There are so many differences between them, but somehow, they still seem to...

Work.

Isabelle turns her attention back to the phone buzzing in her hand, on vibrate instead of booming Avicii. She doesn’t want to pick up, really. She doesn’t have to pick up, even—Jace would understand, wouldn’t he?

She picks up. “Hey.”

“Hey!” Jace says on the other end. His voice is relieved and Isabelle relaxes at the sound, but flinches at how loud it is. Jace’s voice is quieter, a bit sheepish, when he adds, “I wasn’t sure if you’d pick up.”

“I’m your sister, Jace,” Isabelle says, a careful echo. Jace is silent for a long moment. Isabelle shuts her eyes. Breathes in, out. “What do you need?”

Jace hesitates, before saying, slow (he’s walking on eggshells and both of them know it), “I promised Clary I’d take her out today.” He can’t know how cruel that is—if Jace knew that, he wouldn’t be telling her this. Her breath is steadier than she’d think it’d be. “You know, little fourth of July celebration, like any red-blooded American.” A pause. “Or a four-months-married anniversary. Is that something people do?” When Isabelle laughs, it hurts, but at least it’s genuine. He snorts, too: he’s not _people_ , and it’s clear in the condescending undertone to his words. “Turns out, I have to work today, and I won’t get off in time for the game and fireworks show. If you’re busy, don’t worry about it, but—”

“Jace.” Usually he’s better at getting to the point than this.

“Right. Can you take her?”

Isabelle drags her fingers across her face. Sweat clings to her fingertips, and she clutches her sheets closer around her before saying, “Yeah, sure.”

“Great!” Oh, Jace has no idea of the hell he’s letting loose. If he did... “So Clary might wanna drive, but in case she doesn’t, she can tell you where you’re going. Pick her up at about three, maybe?”

“That should work.”

“Hey, about last week—”

“Don’t worry about it,” Isabelle says, plastering on a fake smile. She knows Jace can’t see her, but it should seep through in her tone. “With how much Lydia can blab, I’m surprised no one knew she and Alec weren’t really dating.”

“Is everything all right, Izzy?” _You have no idea._ “I mean, you don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.”

Isabelle snorts. “Please tell me you aren’t about to repeat one of Hodge’s long-winded therapy session speeches,” she says. She can recite seven of them from memory alone—she’s sure, having spent more time in his “free therapy sessions”, that Jace’s number is higher.

“Oh my God, no... I didn’t sound like Hodge there, did I?”

“Not at all,” Isabelle lies. Her fingers are going numb from the way she’s holding the phone, so she adjusts herself. “I’m fine, promise. Just, uh, you know—that time of the month.”

A crackling pause, and then a low _“Ohh.”_ Silence for a few more seconds. “Well,” Jace says. He’s always been awkward with personal things—especially things like this. “Uh. You can talk about that with Clary, right, lady issues and all—”

Isabelle laughs, her voice cracking when she adds, “Yeah, yeah. Talk to you later, loser.”

“I’m hurt,” Jace says melodramatically, which only makes Isabelle laugh harder. “Hey! Stop laughing at my pain!” She clasps a hand over her mouth, but hears a few suspicious snorts on the other line. “‘Bye, though.”

Isabelle hangs up before he can. She falls back into the sheets with a _WHUMP_ , and her phone drops onto the floor somewhere in the pile of laundry she hasn’t gotten around to folding yet. With a sigh, she decides it’d be better to suffer through a cold shower half-asleep than show up an hour late.

She calls Magnus after she’s dressed, since she still has forty minutes to spare. “Hey,” she says, a little awkward. She really does like Magnus—he’s a good friend to her—but she doesn’t want to make him feel like all she cares about is dumping her problems on him.

“Morning, Isabelle. Any reason you’re calling?”

“Just—” She shakes her head, knowing he can’t see it. “We haven’t talked in a while and I’m kinda... not doing well right now.”

He’s silent for a few moments before saying, “Me either.”

They sit in silence for a minute longer before somehow, it all bursts out of Isabelle: Clary, though of course she doesn’t refer to her by name. Magnus offers his support where he can, and Isabelle listens to his own recent issues—his biological father’s new girlfriend, who’s a swimsuit model younger than Magnus; and non-family issues, too. Those, at least, Isabelle can offer her help with. (Family drama she gets, but the specifics she hasn’t experienced.) She feels a little lighter by the time she’s ready to go. It’s nice to know that even someone as charismatic and bright as Magnus has bad days and can need a little support just like her.

At three o’ clock sharp, she finds herself on Clary and Jace’s doorstep. She inhales and exhales before raising her fist to knock. Clary, hair pulled back into a messy bun, appears like a damn vision after not even a full minute. They grin at each other, both a little hesitant.

“Hi,” Clary says.

“Hi,” Isabelle says back.

Clary tucks her hands into her belt loops, teetering back and forth on the step. She looks like she’s about to ask something, but bites her lip and says instead: “We should head out now. The traffic’s going to be hell.”

Isabelle doesn’t point out that the game doesn’t start until five, and instead nods. They’re almost the first ones to the bleachers—hardcore fans are scattered through already, sending each other dark looks for their choice of team. Isabelle doesn’t even know what sport it is, much less who’s playing—she’d gone to plenty of sports games in high school, if only for Jace’s spot on the football team, but had fallen out of date somewhere between senior year of high school and freshman year of college.

Clary seems out of place among the crowd, a tiny redheaded girl with paint stains on her T-shirt, but no one pays her any attention. The stands start filling up, and by the time the game starts, Isabelle and Clary are pressed together: side-to-side, knee-to-knee, arm-to-arm, and if they leaned a little closer, almost cheek-to-cheek. Isabelle’s unable to ignore the warmth of Clary’s body against hers, the warmth of their bare legs locked next to each other.

Clary supports the home team, whatever it is, and stands—she glows, lit by the streetlamps where she hovers at the top row of the bleachers. She yells whenever the scoreboard ticks up, boos when it goes down. It’s fun, Isabelle realizes, to watch her watching the game, animated in a way Isabelle hasn’t gotten to see yet.

But she’s still too quiet for her voice to stand out the way she seems to want it to. Isabelle, hearing her voice start to tremble, shifts so she’s behind her (or as far behind her as she can get like this). Clary twists halfway to meet her gaze. It’s a couple minutes from the game ending, the sky darkening above. Isabelle feels her eyes dart to Clary’s lips; every fine hair of her eyebrows; the natural curl of her eyelashes. She thinks, _I could kiss her now_. She thinks, _maybe she’d kiss back_ when she catches Clary returning the appreciative looks. She thinks, _I could just lean in, and—_

She doesn’t. Instead, she says, “You’re going to have a sore throat for a week if you keep yelling like that.” Her voice is hardly audible over the roar of the crowd, but Clary hears it. Isabelle can tell.

“Really?” Clary asks, and Isabelle will pretend the shiver she feels is because of the cold. It’ll be doing them both a favor, because if she admits to herself that Clary is affected by her close proximity—by _her_ —she doesn’t know what she’ll do. Isabelle flattens her hands across Clary’s stomach, somewhere between her lower ribs. Clary bristles at the touch. “Um, what—”

“Tighten your stomach muscles,” Isabelle says, and Clary gives a shaky nod. Beneath Isabelle’s fingers, Clary tenses up, but her shoulders relax. “Now,” Isabelle says, and glides her fingers higher, pretending not to hear Clary’s breath catch in her throat, “broaden your diaphragm.”

Clary does. Isabelle’s fingers lock together, and she can imagine that it’s real. That she’d asked Clary to this instead of being sicced on it by her husband. That the hand settling across hers doesn’t have a ring on it, or that she’s got one to match.

“Here’s the big one,” Isabelle says, right into Clary’s ear.

She can’t even make out Clary’s words over the rest of the crowd, enough to make her ears pop after home scores a touchdown—she’s too caught up in the rush, in Clary’s blinding beam. It feels like home, she thinks. She pulls her fingers off Clary, peeling them away like individual layers of flesh. Clary turns back to her, another dozen different questions Isabelle doesn’t have answers for in her face, but Isabelle settles for a brittle smile. Any words she could even think of would be lost in the whoops and applause, she’s sure.

And then they pack up and go to the fireworks show. Clary spreads a picnic blanket on the edge of a bumpy hill. The sun goes down, and she laughs off not bringing a jacket. Isabelle shrugs off her own, ignoring the cold for the obvious quake in Clary’s shoulders. Clary goes the same shade as the sunset when Isabelle drapes her jacket over her. They stretch out on the blanket, and it’d be the most comfortable thing ever if there weren’t bugs crawling in between them and they were talking.

If Clary sits up just before the first firework starts sizzling, and clutches tight to Isabelle’s shirt, and Isabelle lets her arm fall around her and Clary leans into the touch, then that’s between them. The fireworks burst above them, crackling and fading into the darkened sky. Isabelle blinks the flashing lights away and fights the urge to clasp her hands over her ears. She’s never been a fan of fireworks—but she just holds Clary tighter. And Clary’s hair tickles her neck, and God, she’s so in love with this girl.

Isn’t it just wonderful that the girl Isabelle would go to hell and back for—the girl she’d sell her soul for—the girl she’d do almost anything for can’t be with her? She could’ve fallen for Lydia. She could’ve fallen for someone more... attainable. Someone not married, not married to a man, not married to Isabelle’s brother.

She pushes the thoughts away, shaking and not all from the cold or the fireworks. It’s hard not to smile when the air is soft and refreshing, and Clary is tucked into her like this, something she probably won’t get to feel again. It’s hard not to smile when she’s, after all, happy.

“I had a good time,” she tells Clary, in her and Jace’s driveway. Jace’s car is still gone, Isabelle notices; she doesn’t bring it up. Clary grins at her, and for a second Isabelle can still see the fireworks exploding in her eyes. Her jacket hangs around Clary’s shoulders, as if Clary’s forgotten it’s there or maybe doesn’t want to take it off. “It was nice to talk to you again,” Isabelle adds, anything but what she’s really thinking. (They hadn’t done that much talking.)

“Yeah,” Clary says. “You too.”

She hovers there, on her own front step with the motion-activated porch lamp turning her gold, for a minute longer. Her hands tap at her sides in an idle but constant movement. She doesn’t say goodbye, and neither does Isabelle. Neither of them say another word. Isabelle thinks, again, her throat sore: _I could kiss her right now._ It chills her in a way the breeze can’t.

But Clary is leaning forwards, her eyes pinching shut and they’re closer than Isabelle had thought and, _oh, God,_ her lips are an inch from Isabelle’s—

Headlights blur past, a car speeding past Clary and Jace’s place, and that’s a thought that shoots Isabelle’s heart back to her stomach. She jerks back, not wanting to point out that Clary should give her jacket back. Clary’s still tipped forwards, eyes blown wide and horror-struck—at herself or Isabelle, Isabelle doesn’t know and doesn’t want to know. And Isabelle—

Isabelle can’t do this. She might be deep into whatever hell she loves her brother’s wife in (which is a real-life hell, now), but she’s not a homewrecker. She isn’t going to be the reason Jace’s marriage falls apart. _Why not?_ asks a nasty little voice in her, as she’s standing there in front of Jace’s house. _Why not get him back for all the shit he’s done to you?_

And to Isabelle, that’s the scariest part of this. Not that she’s in love for the first time in years. Not that she’s in love with, of all people, the worst possible girl in the worst possible situation. No: it’s that there’s a part of her, no matter how small, that’s all for just kissing Clary on some damn impulse. For breaking what happiness Jace has finally gotten, what happiness he deserves.

“Goodnight,” she tells Clary, both her voice and palms shaking.

Isabelle backs away, leaving Clary on the doorstep. She almost keys her own car trying to unlock it, before remembering that she hadn’t locked it in the first place. She wrenches open the car door with numb hands, then almost slams one shut in it. She’s not sure she can drive now, but it’s not like she can call a cab or ask for Clary to drive her home or just stay here.

It’s tempting, she will admit, but she can’t.

She pulls out of Clary’s driveway. When she looks away from the rearview mirror, Clary is still standing on the doorway, lit in the pale gold of the porch light.

 

+

 

Clary’s guilt, at this point, has become an inanimate object—something physical. Shackles around her wrists, a crown of thorns resting on her head, something heavy and hard and that makes her stomach dip and twist. Her first mistake, maybe, is telling Jace—a marriage is supposed to be a bond of truth, something pure and untainted. Her first mistake before that, maybe, was marrying Jace in the first place.

But he’s a good guy. And so she sits with him in the evening and wonders why—if she’s married to a man, if she thought she’d been in love with him—she feels so strongly for his sister. She sits with him and lies, “I love you too,” because she’s not sure anymore. He kisses her and she feels wrong, somehow.

She wishes she could say it’s something new, that Isabelle’d waltzed in and turned her world upside down—but that wouldn’t be fair to Isabelle. And it wouldn’t be the truth. She’s had the feelings for a while—it’s just taken this long for her to realize it.

It isn’t fair to Jace or her to keep pretending, but she’s not sure what else she can do. _Until death do us part._

Clary finds herself at Isabelle’s door at the start of August, memories of the fireworks and them pinched so close together dancing through her head. She raises her fist and, despite a voice in her head saying _don’t do it don’t do it_ , she knocks.

 

+

 

Isabelle knows who it’s going to be before she opens the door. Of course she does—there’s only one person who could be standing there, who could show up now. And of course she’s right—Clary stands there, hair smoothed along one shoulder, paler than usual. Isabelle doesn’t even get a _hi_ out before Clary’s pushing past her. Isabelle sighs at the door and shuts it, following Clary into the living room, where she’s pacing back and forth.

She tries to get out a greeting, but Clary says, before she can: “Look, I don’t—I don’t know what’s going on here. But I—you. You, God, you...” Clary’s fingers scrape through her hair. She moves as if to flop onto the couch, apparently thinking better of it and standing still. Isabelle’s mouth closes. “You make me feel something, and I don’t—I don’t want to. I can’t. I’m—I’m married,” Clary says, almost a confession, a broken whisper.

“Clary,” Isabelle says, soft.

“I can’t do this,” Clary says—she’s more frustrated, more sad, more _something_ than angry like she’s trying to let on. She scratches at the back of her head, and looks to the couch, chewing her lip. She scuffs her boot on the carpet, and says, “Whatever this is, whatever it was, I just—I can’t. It has to stop. Right now.”

“Clary,” Isabelle says again, voice cracking. Her heart slams against her chest with the door—Clary’s not looking at her when she goes out. Clary’s a harried mess who’s not thinking, and Isabelle’s wondering how the hell she’s going to explain this to her brother, and then the door opens back up.

And in steps Clary again, her chin tilted up and eyebrows narrowed. The door swings shut behind her, but Isabelle hardly notices it. Are they going to have an actual conversation instead of Clary talking about her feelings, are they going to argue about it, are they going to cut off all contact with each other, are they going to—

Isabelle’s thoughts come to a halt. Possible cause: Clary’s taken three steps forwards and closed the distance, and her fingers are curling around Isabelle’s cheeks and her lips are pressed to Isabelle’s. Her hands wind into Isabelle’s hair and bunch at her scalp and Isabelle shuts her eyes. She tries not to lean in, but finds herself doing so and tasting cherry lip gloss and desperation and warmth and everything on Clary. Clary’s warm and a livewire and hard and their lips are mashed together, teeth clanking, and their noses bump together, and Isabelle can taste her own morning breath but it’s somehow perfect. The world pops in color against Isabelle’s eyelids, all vivid and beautiful and shining, and God, she should feel so awful for this. But she can’t think with Clary pushing her back and her hands falling around Clary’s hips.

They go thudding into the living room wall, Isabelle’s back hitting firm stone with a harsh _thump_ and Clary giving a shaky laugh into her lips. “Bedroom,” Isabelle chokes out, though she winces at the pain in her back—and she wrenches Clary away from her for a second, opens her eyes to see Clary looking back at her with her hair all mussed up. Clary kisses her again, and it’s like magnets sparking between them—this kiss is less tension, coiled tight enough to snap, shattering, and more—Isabelle doesn’t know. It’s softer. Slower. More lips, less teeth and promise of tongue.

Isabelle’s heart stammers as she presses back into Clary, drawing her flush against her, and somehow they’re stumbling into Isabelle’s bedroom, onto her bed. And Clary giggles and Isabelle chokes on her spit, and they are blinding and painful together, and—

A knock sounds through Isabelle’s apartment. Clary pauses in clambering on top of Isabelle, her arms stilling where they’re pressed on either side of Isabelle’s head. Clary’s mouth is warm against hers, pressing into her one final time before Isabelle, gasping for breath, shoves her away, says, “I really have to get that—what if it’s an emergency—”

Clary flops onto her side and bats her eyelashes with a smile that shouldn’t look so devious and seductive at the same time. “Izzy,” she drawls out. Isabelle manages to sit up, hands scrubbing over her face in an attempt to calm the white-hot fire in her veins.

“Stay here,” she says, almost a command, and leaves Clary in her bed, and _dear God_ she still has her touch but at what cost?

She’s not who she expects at the door. When she opens it, she wonders if karma really does exist. (The presented scientific evidence absolutely fucking points to yes.)

“Hey. Sorry to show up like this—I just wanted to talk. Maybe. About—about Clary,” Jace says, pulling sweaty fingers through his tangle of hair. Isabelle opens and shuts her mouth, just praying Clary listens to her or Jace doesn’t ask to see the bedroom. “Can I come in?”

Isabelle nods, and steps aside. “It’s nice to see you, Jace,” she says, a little louder than she maybe should. “What’s up?”

“She’s been... I don’t know,” Jace says, all the while oblivious to Isabelle’s internal crisis. (It’s too early for her mid-life crisis and especially over a girl, what the hell.) “A bit—well. I don’t know,” he repeats. Isabelle hears a scuffling noise coming from the bedroom—Jace doesn’t react, so she breathes a silent sigh of relief. “How was the game? And the fireworks show? How was Clary?”

“Fine,” Isabelle says stiffly.

Jace doesn’t seem to notice her discomfort. Then again, if she were in his shoes—“Did she say anything about me?” Isabelle doesn’t say anything. Her gaze drops away from him, but his burns into her. It’s like he’s trying to dig the truth out of her—and it’s not something she should keep from him. It isn’t. “I think I’m doing something wrong. And if she said anything, can you be honest with me? I know I haven’t been the greatest brother to you, but I’d trust you with my life. And Clary would too.” He smiles at her, and Isabelle swallows around the lump in her throat at just how hopeful he looks. His smile drops at something in her face—he must misinterpret her silence. “She didn’t say anything, huh?”

“No,” Isabelle says, her knees beginning to buckle. _She didn’t say anything because I don’t think she’s in love with you. I think she’s lying to herself and both of you are going to get hurt and it’s because of me and I don’t want that._

She hates herself.

Jace sighs. “I’m sorry, then,” he says, with a little head bow, and turns.

Isabelle doesn’t move to stop him, but says, “Jace.” He pauses, twisting his head back. He’s so damn hopeful and he’s in love with Clary and he loves Isabelle, but... “If you’re worried about your wife”—ah, distancing, that always works—“then ask her. Not me.”

“Okay,” Jace says. He nods, more a small bob of his head than an actual confirmation. She knows he won’t take her up on it—Jace is too proud, too afraid though he won’t admit it. Speaking directly would get him in trouble, he’d been taught, and he can’t unlearn that in a day. Neither can Isabelle. “I’ll see you, then. We’ll have dinner sometime?”

“Sure, Jace.”

Jace nods again, looking like he wants to say more. Isabelle doesn’t keep him from leaving, and he slips out the door and it slams shut behind him and Isabelle sinks against the wall. She shouldn’t have let Clary in, she should’ve turned her away, she should’ve—she doesn’t know. But she hadn’t, and now Clary’s heard the entire conversation—knowing full well what’s going “wrong” in her marriage—and is in her bedroom, and there’s no way either of them can do this. The elephant in the room is performing ballet in a neon tutu and is set aflame.

Isabelle picks herself up off the carpet and drags herself to the bedroom, where she expects Clary to be fixing herself up, making an excuse to leave. Instead, a warm draft of wind hits her as soon as she steps in, and one glance to the bed and window make her swear under her breath.

The sheets are empty, blankets tossed aside but rumpled by their bodies, which Isabelle feels a sick sense of tightness in her stomach at. The window’s cracked open, the fire escape already empty when Isabelle peers out.

She shouldn’t have let Clary in.

  


+

 

Clary marches through Riverside Park, air stinging her. The pop of grass and flowers around her is almost too much for her to handle, the sun beating down on her more than a little painful. She clutches her arms tight around herself. She shouldn’t have come to Isabelle’s place—she shouldn’t have kissed her. She’d already been pushing this, whatever it was, away for years—what was the rest of her life? She could’ve ignored it.

But she’d be lonely and hurt the rest of her life if she’d done that, and muffled footsteps wouldn’t be trailing after her. “Clary,” Isabelle wouldn’t be saying in what’s not quite a plea or a command. Just her name.

Clary whirls, lips curling down. She faces Isabelle, somehow still beautiful when her hair’s a mess and her clothes are disheveled. Her perfect red lipstick is smudged, lips pursed, and Clary thinks, looking her over, _I did that._ Isabelle’s slippers come to a halt, dirt and gravel sure to be catching at her feet, but she’s still standing there. She’s still staring at Clary, the thousand different emotions in her face making Clary’s chest swell.

“I heard him,” Clary says, and something in her stomach twists, a twin feeling of guilt and pleasure. Not ten minutes ago Isabelle’s lips had been fitted against hers—it was all Clary had wanted for months. _Is_ all she still wants. “God—I heard him, he’s blaming himself when I—” _Am in love with his sister and not him,_ she doesn’t voice. Can’t _love him. Would’ve had sex with his sister if he hadn’t shown up._

“You can stop this,” Isabelle says, but it sounds practiced, rehearsed, artificial. She’s forcing herself to say it, lips twitching and eyes glazed at pushing the words out. “Like you said. That it had to stop. You can stop it now.” Clary doesn’t ask _how_ , but Isabelle staggers closer. “Tell me to go,” she says, shivering despite the heat. “Tell me to go, and I’ll walk away right now. You’ll never have to see me again.”

Clary says, feeling like she’s been kicked in the chest, “Is that what you want?”

Isabelle’s eyes drop. “I want you,” she says, broken and desperate. Her eyes meet Clary’s again, almost as if she’s saying— _I wasn’t supposed to. But I do. Now what do_ you _want?_

Clary doesn’t say, _I want you, too._ Clary doesn’t say, _I want you more than anything._ Clary doesn’t say, _I’d leave him for you._ Clary says, “Izzy.” There’s so much more to it than that. She just says, _Izzy,_ and there’s little emotion in her tone. It’s painful and heartbreaking to wrench it out, to say it, to not say anything else she’s thinking. It’s hard. But she does it.

Isabelle kneels by the flowerbeds, not taking her eyes off Clary for a moment but drawing shattered stems of violets and forget-me-nots from the patches below. She creaks to her feet and takes the last few steps of distance between them, and she’s so damn close and tucking the flowers behind Clary’s ear. And the light catches her dark eyes, and Clary thinks, as natural as the sun shining above and the flowers tucked into her hair, that she’s in love with her.

“We’ll be okay,” she says. Isabelle lurches forwards, face a careful mask, and Clary feels their cheeks pressed together. Isabelle’s arms curl around her, and she’s real and beautiful and harsh in the light. And it feels like—

“Don’t forget me,” Isabelle tells her.

“I won’t remember anything else,” she tells Isabelle.

It feels like home, Clary will admit only to herself. She clings to Isabelle for dear life, her fingers bunched in Isabelle’s wrinkled shirt and at her neck and scraping through her hair. She doesn’t cry while Isabelle’s pressed to her, while Isabelle leans to the side to kiss her cheek. It’s soft and cruel and Clary has never felt this before. Not with Jace. Not with any of the girls she’d had crushes on before. Not with anyone.

She doesn’t know how long they’ve been standing there, embracing in the park with no one around and birds chirping in the trees above, when Isabelle’s body peels away from hers. And Isabelle’s back is turning, and Isabelle is a smudge against the horizon, stumbling away from her with her shoulders trembling. And that’s when Clary starts to cry: she’s never been a loud crier, just a sniffler. She pinches at her nose and wants to scream and doesn’t, and walks home by herself, sure the wind’s washed away any trace of the pinkness in her nose.

 

+

 

“Alec, I fucked up,” Isabelle says. She’s a little tipsy, fingers tight around Alec’s door frame for support. He stares back at her, eyebrows pressed together in a vaguely annoyed line—but that’s his default expression, so Isabelle thinks nothing of it.

“What did you do?” Alec asks, leaning against the half-closed door.

Isabelle winces. “Made out with Jace’s wife.”

A minute raise of the eyebrows. “Shit.”

“That covers it, yeah.” She shifts, hands falling into her pockets. Jace had left a voice message a day after the Grocery Store Incident that she should at least talk to Alec if not him, so she’s being as honest as she can. “I think I’m in love with her,” she says, and it’s half-lie, half-truth. She knows she’s in love with Clary.

Alec doesn’t answer for a long moment. Distant strands of what sounds like violin music drift out into the near-empty hall. Isabelle kicks at the ground, heels making sounds not unlike donkey hooves. She squints at the artificial light washing over Alec’s shoulder until it brings water to her eyes. Alec’s hand finds her shoulder and she’s being tugged into him, and maybe the water stinging her cheeks isn’t all from the light now. Alec isn’t sentimental (neither is she, really), and both of them know that, but he does settle for rubbing calming circles across her back. “Does Jace—”

“Lydia told him I’m in love with someone,” she says. It’s muffled into Alec’s shoulder, which she wouldn’t be able to reach without the heels she’s wearing. “But he doesn’t know it’s her. I doubt he does, anyways.”

Alec peels back. “What happened?”

“She came to me,” Isabelle says. She scrubs her face—she should be being strong, she shouldn’t be so broken up over this, but those are her mother’s words, aren’t they, that Lightwoods break noses and accept the consequences, they grin and bear it, they don’t cry. She’s not embarrassed, but the last time she’d cried in front of a family member, Maryse had given her the whole speech. Alec doesn’t comment on it outright, but when she looks up with a small sniff, he’s giving her a small pitying smile. “She told me we—and there was no _we_ in the first place, really—were over, then came back in and kissed me. And I would’ve—I think we would’ve gone further if Jace hadn’t come over and asked for my goddamned advice with her, thinking it was his fault.”

Alec studies her. He’s long lost the dark circles beneath his eyes, the constant scowl and tension like at any moment someone’s about to rip away everything he’s ever had, the twitch of his fingertips every few seconds—but there’s still something exhausted about his frame. She’s considering asking Magnus if he’s getting enough sleep and not downing entire pots of coffee to stay awake in the morning when he breathes out, slow. “Izzy,” he says, on the verge of condescending.

And Isabelle hates that. She knows what she did was (is) wrong, she knows it shouldn’t have happened. Her parents have taken that tone with her so many times she’s lost count. (“You’ve dated men before.” “You can’t be both a scientist and a fashion designer.” “You won’t get anywhere without our support.” All the shit they’ve given her over the years.) She flinches back, and snaps, “Sorry for bothering you. I’ll go.”

She’s making her way to the elevator when Alec says, behind her, “Isabelle.” She turns to see him furrowing his eyebrows at her, making an attempt at smiling. “You deserve to be happy. You can’t change who you are, or who you fall in love with.”

And it’s so much more than that.

He’d told her the first part once, her head on his shoulder and the words _I think I’m gay_ ugly and bitter on her tongue. She couldn’t say _lesbian_ then, not yet—not after all the girls on the cheer squad would gab about how dirty those _lesbos_ were, not after the boys jeered about the lesbian porn they watches. After all, she’d had a boyfriend—had had plenty of boyfriends, each lasting maybe a week. _You can’t change who you are,_ he’d said after just sitting there with her for a few minutes, and she’d retorted, _And you can?_ They’d been each other’s sole confidants, the only ones in the family they truly trusted. No matter how close either of them were with Jace, or any estranged family members who seemed to get them, they were close first. And that’d never go away, no matter how much they argued or turned the cold shoulder on each other.

That one memory, of Maryse’s footsteps outside a danger with every passing second, sends a chill down her spine. “I know,” she says, quiet, and keeps walking. She knows what she has to do, and maybe it’s a lot like running away, but it’s the best thing to do.

 

+

 

Clary’s never felt this terrible on her birthday before. She’d groaned at seeing the calendar and glaring red circle around August 23rd when she’d woken up, the _BIRTHDAY!_ alarm on her phone just hurting her eyes. Weeks and she’s still here, still lying, and Jace had been warm and too much with his mumble of _Happy birthday, babe,_ and she’d wanted nothing more than to just go back to sleep. (And maybe never wake up.)

But then she’s at Jocelyn and Luke’s duplex in the afternoon. Next door, Dot—Madame Dorothea Rollins, as her cheesy sign states in neon lettering—keeps clattering around in her out-of-home psychic shop. One of the presents spread out in front of Clary has a _FROM, DOT_ with a little heart after on it—she thinks it might be breathing. Simon sits across the table from Clary, humming _happy birthday to you_ under his breath. Luke sets a cake in front of Clary, vanilla and peppered with rainbow sprinkles, the waxy scent of the 23 candles wafting through the air. Jocelyn and Luke sing in equally off harmony, Jace’s high voice lilting in Clary’s ear. Clary’s surprised Simon doesn’t burst out laughing, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s.

“Happy birthday to Cla-ry,” everyone sings. “Happy birthday to you...” And Clary leans forwards to puff out the flickering candles, smoke curling up and making her eyes wet. Applause bursts out behind and next to her.

Jocelyn whoops, then slices the cake, says, “It’s too bad you didn’t have more friends to invite. I got this big cake and everything—”

“Maureen was busy,” Simon says from across the room, counting on his fingers. “Something about a date with some fitness instructor?”

“She has Izzy,” Jace adds, kicking back in his chair, and Clary’s heartbeat spikes, “but she’s leaving today, so—”

Clary’s heart drops again at that. “She’s leaving?” she repeats. “Where’s she going?”

Jace’s eyebrows furrow, and he squints at her. “She didn’t tell you?” he asks. “I thought you two got pretty close after the wedding,” he adds, and shrugs when Clary shakes her head mutely. “She’s heading off for a vacation to France, or something. She made it clear she wasn’t interested in telling me the details.”

“Oh.” Clary stares at her cake, something sinking in her chest. She glances back up to see Jace tilting his head at her, eyes burning into her and lips tipping down with realization. He hadn’t known all those months about Clary’s feelings—that much had been obvious—but a week ago, Jace had gotten drunk and Clary’d admitted she didn’t think she was in love with him anymore, that maybe she was in love with someone else. She’d thought he’d been asleep. Maybe he hadn’t been. “You said she was leaving today?”

“She said her flight was at one.” Clary glances to Jace’s gold watch: though she’s always had issues with analog clocks, twelve-twenty is easy enough to read. She looks back to Jace’s face, his eyebrow twitching and hurt but no real anger flashing across his face. He stands, rattling the table and startling Jocelyn, Luke, and Simon. “Clary, can we talk outside?”

 _Talk_ means _argue_ , Clary knows, but she nods. “I’ll be right back,” she tells her parents and Simon. “Just—start eating without me?” Jace is already halfway to the door. Simon wastes no time using the flat side of his plastic fork to cut his slice into bite-sized chunks, but pauses in lifting one chunk to his mouth to shoot her a questioning look. Clary nods in response to his silent _everything okay?_ and smiles at them all.

She follows Jace out into the driveway to find him rummaging through his coat pockets (it being a little chillier today). Clary reaches him just as he’s coming up with a skinny manilla envelope. Jace grinds his shoes into the gravel, eyes glazed as he hands the envelope to her, and her hands shake around it.

“Jace—”

“I really hate to do this on your birthday,” he says, and he does sound bad about it, “but I figured if I decided—” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Clary. I thought I could do this, with you in love with someone else”—his voice rises enough that Dot, Jocelyn, Luke, and Simon are all peering out the duplex’s windows—“but I can’t. I can’t do this.”

Clary, fingers clumsily moving, opens the envelope. Inside are several slips over paper. It takes Clary a moment to realize it’s divorce paperwork. Her heart drops from where it’s somewhere up in her neck to the pit of her stomach. “Jace,” she says, and nothing else. Sure—she’d been considering it, too, because she can’t go through with the lying much longer. But she hadn’t expected it—and she can’t explain that she can’t just—

“Clary,” Jace says. He isn’t looking at her. “I love you, and I want you to be happy. Especially if it’s with her.” His hand rises to press into her shoulder, and Clary trembles harder. “I’m—okay, I’m not thrilled you didn’t say anything to me, but you’re in love with her. Right?”

Clary doesn’t see any point in denying it, her lips numb around the single word. “Right.”

“She should be heading to the airport now,” Jace tells her, smile a little sad. He leans forwards, and kisses her cheek—soft, with no intent behind it. Not like that last kiss with Isabelle. “Damn. I expected I would shout more.” He rocks back on his heels and looks at her. “You should’ve talked to me. Not while I was almost black-out drunk thinking I’d done something wrong.” Guilt floods over her in waves.

“I never meant to hurt you,” Clary says, sounding like a flimsy excuse.

“I know,” Jace says. He nods, more to himself, and his hand falls from her shoulder. “I’m—well, we’ll work it out, okay? We both need to be happy, and I don’t think that’s with each other.”

“I love you, too,” Clary chokes out, too late. Jace nods again, and steps away. He leaves Clary in her parents’ driveway with them observing from the kitchen window and divorce papers crinkling in Clary’s fist. He’s a blur on the Manhattan streets before long, and she briefly wonders if he intends to walk all the way to his parents’ mansion before he catches a cab a few blocks away.

She stumbles back into the house in a dreamlike trance, collapsing onto the living room couch. Jocelyn and Luke settle in on either side of her, and she can tell they’re exchanging looks over her head. Simon hovers on the opposite side of the room, awkwardly wringing his hands.

“Clary,” Jocelyn says, after a few moments of silence, “what did Jace mean when he said you were in love with someone else?”

“I—” The truth scalds Clary’s throat, and she’s almost ready to bite it back before admitting, “I am in love with someone else.” Before they can bring up the ‘her’ part of the conversation—if they’d heard that much—she adds, “Her name’s Isabelle. And, um, she’s Jace’s sister?” She at least allows herself a sheepish shrug, aware of Simon’s jaw falling open.

Jocelyn and Luke look at each other again, and then each drop an arm around her shoulders. The comfort makes Clary want to claw her way out of her own skin. She looks up at Luke, who appears deep in thought. “When your mom and I met,” he says, finally, “we were in high school together. That fancy prep school.” Jocelyn smiles back at him, and it looks so much more real than all the tired fake smiles she used to give Clary that Clary can’t fight a tentative smile of her own. “She was head-over-heels for this guy a year ahead of us—most of the girls in that school were, really. I loved her from the start, but I didn’t want to trample on her feelings. Val and Jocelyn were my best friends, and I didn’t want to ruin that.”

“I wasn’t in love with Luke from the start,” Jocelyn says, soft. Over Clary’s lap, her other hand locks with look, an easy movement that makes Clary squirm between them. “But I was later, and that’s all that matters now. You can love more than one person, and you can love in more than one way.” Clary looks at her shoes. “If you love this girl, go for it.”

Clary is silent for a few beats. “She’s going on a trip out of the continent. She’s—” Hope burns over her, slow and beautiful and she freezes, her smile careful and broad. “She should be heading to the airport. I’ve—”

Jocelyn and Luke make to stand at once, and Simon nabs his car keys off the fireplace. “I’ll drive,” he offers, looking a little shaky from Jocelyn and Luke’s words.

Which is how Clary finds herself in the middle of midday Manhattan traffic, head halfway out the window and seat belt straining against her chest. Trucks and cars and taxis blur by, and she scrambles for her phone somewhere in the pockets of her breezy cardigan. Her nerves spike again at the two heart emojis that’d seemed like a joke at first and now are enough to make her start shaking again.

She dials, and presses the phone to her ear. She hears a shrill tone over lines of traffic, fading away when Isabelle picks up on the second ring. Traffic noise Clary’s already hearing on her end echoes over the line—intensified, too, presumably by a Bluetooth. “Hello,” Isabelle says.

“Izzy,” Clary breathes, shutting her eyes. “I’m—where are you? We need to talk.”

“I’m,” Isabelle says, terse, “leaving for France. Have you heard how lovely France is in autumn?” Despite her casual words, her tone is anything but. “And there’s nothing to say, really—”

“Isabelle, I have divorce papers in my jean pocket.”

Silence, and then: “I can see Simon’s car, but I still—I’m leaving, Clary.”

If she can see Simon, Clary can see her. Clary leans further out the window, catching the eyes of a biker rolling between the lines of cars, humming to himself. _That song,_ Clary thinks—and it’d been playing at her reception, when she’d turned away from the punch and there had been Isabelle, and she’d looked at Isabelle and somehow seen her future, when she thought it’d all been planned out. When she’d been trying to tell herself that her future was Jace.

Isabelle says, “Goodbye, Clary,” and the line goes to dial tone. Clary curses and undoes her seat belt, hardly hearing Simon’s squeak beside her. She clambers up onto the top of his car, and lucky for her they’re hitting a clump of traffic.

“Be careful, this is my baby,” she hears Simon hiss at her through the open window.

Clary looks over the cars, a dizzying sight, and rocks back and forth. She shuts her eyes, and Isabelle’s hands are around her waist, settled between her ribs—but they’re her own hands now. _Here’s the big one,_ Isabelle is murmuring into her ears, close enough to kiss. And Clary’s breathing in, diaphragm swelling against her fingertips—

“ISABELLE!” goes echoing over the honking and tire screeches of cars. A few lines over, a car door slams open—and _God bless America,_ Isabelle Lightwood steps out instead of any other pissed off New Yorker. Isabelle stares at her, and Clary has never felt so on top of the world—or Simon’s car. And it’s like the world’s stopped spinning, if just for a second. “Isabelle, I can do this.”

And then they’re both moving, the cars still stopped by red lights and other cars and stop signs, and they meet somewhere in the middle. Clary can’t breathe—so maybe it isn’t the greatest decision to lean in, but Isabelle’s fingers skirt over her cheekbones and there’s so much in her eyes that it’s hard for Clary to absorb. With the divorce paperwork weighing a ton in her back pocket, she can’t take all that much in, but—

They’re both leaning in to close the distance, and when their lips meet it feels like coming home.

 

+

 

(Predicting the future is, of course, impossible. Isabelle knows that. But she can imagine—and this is the future she sees when she shuts her eyes:

She’s buying another ticket to Paris, a week later than the original date. Jace shows up to the airport and they promise to talk when they get back. And Isabelle kisses Clary as they’re getting on the plane, and no one looks at them funny. And then they spend three weeks in Paris, and get back, and the divorce goes through, and Clary and Isabelle make it work. Clary is okay with herself, with who she is. Isabelle is happy, too, for once. They both are. And it’s somehow better than anything Isabelle’s ever felt in her life before.

But bad days happen, good times come and go. It’s life, Isabelle guesses, and her relationship with Clary is in no way a cure for anything.

But it’s pretty good.)

**Author's Note:**

> u can hmu on [tumblr](http://heterophobicalec.tumblr.com) where im probably yelling still?? who knows!!
> 
> a final note (spoilery so i didnt include it in the above):  
> \- i don't really know how divorce works, i think it varies by state? so what you see here is probably not accurate. i just wanted a happy ending where they werent, like, just separated or still married bc that would make me really uncomfortable. oops.


End file.
